Bathophobia (Phobias 2)
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson return in a case involving yet another string of suicides. Is it just a copy of the cabbie, or is something more sinister afoot? Established Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Before you begin, there are a few things I need to clarify. **

**This is the second in a series, Sang being the first, and this story takes place after that. It is not necessary to read Sang first, but that is the case I wrote in which the boys come to grips with their feelings for the other and what transpired in that story will be alluded to here and there. **

**Chronologically, this series can take place anywhere you would like in the BBC series. The only direct references to the episodes in series 1 and 2 will be from A Study in Pink (because obviously this would be after that), so that you can imagine this wherever you would like, pre or post Reichenbach. **

**Thank you for reading! :)**

* * *

The woman lingered beside the ornate railing, peering at the river beneath her. Anticipation and fear pulsed through her, coursing through her veins as she braced herself for the icy plunge. The hum of conversation around the woman faded away as her heartbeat dominated her mind. Refusing to look away from the water, she deftly climbed atop the railing. Whether the emotional stress had finally taken a toll on her or the lack of physical activity had weakened her exponentially, a wave of exhaustion crashed through her body. Despite her reputation, she had never been a spiritual woman, yet she couldn't help but send one last prayer, the first of many to possess sincerity, before she pushed herself off of the ledge.

Silence fell as her body crashed into the murky river.

* * *

John Watson was having one of those days, the sort where everything seemed to go wrong. Even the staunchest of realists would wonder if fate was against them on such a day the doctor was experiencing.

Nothing monumentally horrible had transpired; it was merely a buildup of little problems. The clinic was overflowing with flu victims, one of which vomited all over John. Dozens of patients, some pleasant and others disagreeable, whining about their problems or making a big deal out of small ailments.

Normally, this didn't bother the doctor. Or, at least, it didn't bother him when his phone was silent.

Sherlock had texted John no less than forty times within the first hour and a half of arriving at the clinic. They were random messages, mostly composed of boredom complaints or updates on odd experiments that didn't seem to have a purpose until whatever findings they produced proved meaningful on a case. John would reply haphazardly when he could at first, but his responses lessened steadily throughout the day until the doctor didn't even bother to glance at his phone when it buzzed. As his patients grew more numerous and the gap between his replies widened, the detective began texting him more.

Sarah was blatantly obvious about her disapproval towards said texting, making a point to snidely comment on the disrupting messages whenever she could. John knew she didn't like that Sherlock texted him during work, but she hadn't ever made a big deal about it like this before. She knew that he worked efficiently regardless of the detective's intrusive behavior.

Despite usually possessing the ability to shrug off hostile commentary, John found himself literally biting his tongue to keep harsh retorts from being verbalized. It was especially challenging to restrain himself when the cleverness in her barbs began to wane.

Truthfully, Sherlock was annoying John almost as much as he was annoying Sarah, but John had learned the hard way that turning his phone off was not an option (Lestrade had showed up at the clinic with news of an experiment exploding in their kitchen; Sherlock was physically unharmed but the kitchen was a complete disaster). Of course, his phone was only able to chime or vibrate; both options equally annoying when the detective was texting.

Rain streamed from the sky as John finally left the clinic, trying (and failing) to get a cab. Stubbornly refusing to go on the tube, the doctor walked home, his normally favorite weather adding to his mounting frustration.

When he finally reached Baker Street, he groaned aloud as he clapped eyes on the familiar expensive vehicle stopped in front of their flat and a familiar assistant hovering in their doorway. He contemplated turning around and fleeing, but Anthea heard his sigh and motioned for him to enter. He contemplated avoiding the flat but then refused to flee from his home. Stomping past Mycroft's assistant, John traipsed up the stairs and hovered in front of the closed door. He glanced at the watery footprints trailing behind him and winced. He made a mental note to apologize to Mrs. Hudson later.

"You can come in John!" The detective called, his voice muffled through the closed door. Whatever guilt John had felt vanished as his irritation reemerged.

He barely restrained himself from violently flinging the door open. Despite his restraint, the brothers ceased their squabbling and looked up at the doctor as though he had burst into the room in a dramatic fashion.

"Mycroft, why are you here?" John inquired, all but sinking into his chair.

"If you had paid attention to my texts, you would know why," Sherlock interrupted, his chastising tone clashing with the strange gleam in his eyes that had emerged after their case with Madison Bender.

"I was a bit busy you know. I do have a job, and I can't be checking my phone the whole time."

"You already have a job as my assistant. Why you think you have to go work is-"

"As much as I am loathe to interrupt a lover's quarrel, I didn't come here on a social call," Mycroft interrupted, stepping away from Sherlock. "I need my brother's assistance." The words were all but spit out of the elder Holmes' mouth, blatantly disgusted. He waved a file in the air then held it toward Sherlock. The detective scoffed and waved his hand dismissively at his brother.

"I'm not your sniffer dog; you can't just order me to do your dirty work."

John was torn between amusement and aggravation at the childish behavior of the geniuses. He cleared his throat and reached for the files. Mycroft turned and relinquished them to the doctor. "It is imperative that you read this."

"Will do," John replied, rising from his chair.

Mycroft smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes, and promptly left the flat, though not before reminding Sherlock that it was key to the safety of London. This time it was John who scoffed lightly as he closed the door behind the elder Holmes. "Drama queens, the lot of you," the doctor muttered as he walked to the kitchen for a cuppa.

"I'm not a drama queen," Sherlock indignantly hollered from the living room.

"Please, next to your brother, you're the most melodramatic person I know," John replied after his cuppa was made and he was back in his chair. His aggravation still lurked deep in his mind, but exhaustion dominated his thoughts and body. Fighting the urge to sleep, the doctor moved to look at the newspaper.

"Dull; there's nothing for you to read."

"I don't read the same things you do Sherlock; besides, we don't usually get cases from the papers."

"Yes, well, clients have been scarce lately."

"Maybe if you didn't refuse a majority of them, more people would come to you for help."

"No, that's not it. My selectiveness never bothered them before, and I don't see why it would now."

"Quite frankly I'm every bit as annoyed as you; your boredom is interfering with my work."

Sherlock looked sharply at John, his mouth slightly agape. The doctor prepared for a snarky comeback or scalding insult, but nothing escaped the detective's lips. The slightest hint of sheepishness blossomed on Sherlock's face, tinting his pale cheeks a light pink and sending his gaze to the ground. It wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone but John, and the knowledge that he was allowed to witness the slight displays of weakness eliminated the lingering irritation.

It was over in an instant; the detective hopped out of his chair and strolled into the kitchen, peering into stereoscope.

John lingered in his chair for a little while longer, finishing his tea in quick gulps. When the cup was empty, the doctor smiled and walked to the kitchen sink, brushing past Sherlock. He touched the detective's shoulder as he placed the dish into the sink, his thumb lightly running over the purple shirt. Sherlock leaned slightly into the doctor's touch, and a smile graced both of their faces.

"I'm going to order dinner, Chinese okay?"

Sherlock ambiguously grunted, and John interpreted it to be an affirmative response.

The doctor moved to the couch and reached for the remote, the telly blaring to life. He aimlessly strolled through the channels, nothing interesting enough was on that made him want to continue watching, though several movies popped on that were decent.

Sherlock plopped down on the couch next to John, his body pressed against the doctor's right side as he wove their fingers together. John continued to flit from channel to channel until he found a game show the detective was fond of hollering at, and he stopped there.

As the deductions began flying from the detective, a bemused chuckle bubbled within the doctor, escaping his lips as the sound of knocking floated into their flat from the front door. He rose from the couch and lumbered down the stairs, pulling out his wallet. John paid the delivery boy, took their food, and carried up to the living room.

He strolled into the room and handed Sherlock his food. The detective grunted and lightly picked at his meal as the doctor dug in. The stress of the day was long gone, banished by his detective (despite the fact that he had been a prime source of said stress), the only remnants an empty stomach that was quickly being filled.

It was astounding how quickly someone could make everything better with just glances and touches.


	2. Chapter 2

**Another domestic-y chapter! It didn't flow well for me to jump into the case this update, but the case will pick up after this chapter. **

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The fire slowly died out as the game show ended, followed by another and another. Sherlock continued deducing the contestants, his baritone whispers streaming into the doctor's ears as the detective rested his head on John's shoulder. As his arm wrapped around the bony shoulders, John couldn't help but marvel at their behavior. Even though they had admitted their feelings during the Bender case, it was still strange for the doctor to be able to be open about his feelings.

Despite the mutual acknowledgement and possession of feelings, this was new to the both of them. They continued life as usual, though they were more expressive of their affection, and John moved into Sherlock's bedroom. Little cases (or favors, Sherlock called them, because they were rated four and under) were solved merely at the request of the doctor. Domestic bliss was wonderful, but they both craved excitement. The favors often barely lasted half a day, though.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to John that there was a balance between their acts of affection; neither of them were sole initiates. As Sherlock continued to rest upon John, the doctor knew that this was the detective's way of apologizing. Even though declaring his love for John was possible, a proper verbal apology seemed to be exponentially harder for Sherlock to express.

Smothering a chuckle, John looked away from the screen and down to the man beside him. A verbal apology would've been nice, but the cuddling was a pleasant replacement.

Another game show came and went, and a news broadcast lit up the screen, capturing John's attention.

"This morning, Mrs. Jones was found dead on the banks of the Thames after she threw herself off of a bridge. Witnesses say she was standing casually by the railing when she suddenly climbed over it and jumped into the river. She was-"

"Dull," Sherlock muttered. "Change the channel."

John held the remote up, ready to obey the detective, when an image of the woman's corpse flashed on the screen. The body was hard to see due to the crowd of people surrounding her, but what could be seen sent pity through John. She was pretty, middle-aged, and well off, if the tarnished outfit was anything to go by.

The doctor reluctantly changed the channel, curiosity churning through him. He couldn't help but wonder what caused her to commit suicide.

"There's nothing we can do, John," Sherlock mumbled. "There isn't anything to investigate."

"I suppose," John sighed, staring at the television screen. They sat in silence, unmoving, until John's eyes burned, and they went to bed.

* * *

The doctor woke to sun streaming in his eyes and an empty bed. It wasn't shocking, given Sherlock hardly slept and often left their room early in the morning to continue experimenting. Turning to the clock, he stared blearily at the bright red numbers. 8:15. Panic surged through John before he remembered that it was his day off.

He shuffled into the kitchen, craving a cup of tea.

"Morning," Sherlock greeted, swirling a clear substance in a beaker.

"Morning. What are you doing?" John asked, reaching for the milk in the fridge, thankfully not occupying the shelf with three hands.

"Repeating an old experiment."

"Interesting?"

"Not in the slightest, but I'm bored and I can't find your gun."

John smirked, reaching in a cupboard for teabags. "Well, there's always Mycroft's file to look at."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm not going to work for my brother."

"You don't have to work for him, you could just read the file."

"I'm not going to read it."

"So you're just going to repeat experiments until something good comes along?"

"I'm making sure my results were correct."

John snickered and left the kitchen, steaming cup in hand. The morning paper was lying on Sherlock's desk, the crime and justice section separated from the rest of the articles. The doctor thumbed through, slightly disappointed to find nothing particularly interesting. There was a small article focusing on the suicide of Mrs. Jones, but other than that nothing caught his eye.

He found his laptop under the main section of the newspaper and gingerly uncovered it. Maybe his blog would have something. The computer took a little while to turn on, but soon he was on his page. A steady stream of comments flowed in his latest blog post, though none of them showed promise for a new case. He scoured his blog for any signs of someone requiring their assistance but didn't find any. Sighing heavily, John closed the browser.

"Bored?" Sherlock's teasing inquiry broke through the stifling silence.

John tried to glare at the grinning detective, but a matching smile stretched across his face seconds later. "Checking my blog doesn't mean I'm bored."

"No, but that heavy sigh does. Whether people read your posts doesn't bother you, and the only other reason you would sigh like that is because someone made a comment about us being a couple. I doubt the latter was the reason for your exclamation. The only other explanation, and the most likely, is that you are bored," Sherlock smirked, setting the beaker on the cluttered table.

"Well, it's not hard for one to be bored when nothing's going on," John countered, leaning back in his seat.

Sherlock's smirk widened, a silent question shining in his eyes. The doctor turned in his seat, silently answering the query.

It was a strange sight, seeing the detective fighting so strongly to maintain a steady exterior. The stare, unaccompanied by movement, was normal for the two even before they acknowledged their feelings, but it seemed slightly different now. There wasn't an awkward interrupting action, usually carried out by John, to preserve whatever semblance of friendship remained, nor was there a dull dread oozing through the doctor, fearful of the detective's discovery of whatever it was that made John's heart speed up when Sherlock flounced into a room or pranced out of one, often calling for the doctor to follow him.

Their smirks seemed to fade, gradually slipping into gentle smiles before completely dwindling. John rose from his chair, clutching his empty cup, and entered the kitchen, depositing the mug on the counter. Sherlock had turned his focus back to his experiment, his shoulders slightly slumped. It should've made the doctor sad to see the detective's subtle disappointment, but all he could do was grin as he kissed the raven-black curls. John stood straight, his hand replacing his mouth upon the detective's mop of hair.

"Don't worry, the boredom won't last forever."

Sherlock leaned into John's caress. "That's not very comforting."

John chuckled, a reply on his lips when his phone chimed. Both men whipped their heads toward the interrupting noise. The doctor walked to the desk and picked up his phone, a glimmer of relief shooting through him when he saw that it was from Lestrade.

Pub night tonight? -GL

Yes! -JW

Sherlock bored? -GL

Very -JW

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade; he's asking about pub night."

Sherlock snorted.

"It'll only be for a few hours; you'll be fine without me," John continued as he set his phone on the desk.

"Of course I'll be fine. I'll visit the morgue; I've been meaning to continue observing bruising after death."

"Sherlock," John paused, waiting for the detective's intelligent gaze to fall upon him. "I love you."

"Be careful," The detective replied.

"I'm not going yet! It's nine in the morning."

"Still."

The men returned their attention to their previous projects, John at his computer and Sherlock at his makeshift laboratory, each sporting a wide grin.


	3. Chapter 3

**The case is picking up! I can only do one update per week, but once summer rolls around I might be able to do more. In other news, I got back up on tumblr, under the same username as this, which took up the little time I had to write.**

**Anyways, here's the next chapter :)**

* * *

The man trembled slightly, fingers twitching. He reached into his pockets without thought, searching through the empty spaces instinctually. He knew that they didn't hold their usual contents, but he couldn't help himself from inspecting them anyway. Sighing softly, the man glanced at the water. Smooth and peaceful, the river flowed under him, the gentle rush of water barely hitting his eardrums. It was a shame, he thought, that the water would be so beautiful on such a day.

Of course, he'd rather drown himself in a liquid entirely different than water, but this would have to do.

The chatter of the throng of people around him grated on his nerves. He wanted to be surrounded by silence so that he could hear the river, yet he also wanted to be surrounded by the familiar chaos of inebriated sports fans.

Sighing yet again, the man quickly hopped over the railing and into the river below.

* * *

"I'm going out!" John called, shoving his arms into his jacket. "Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone!"

"Same to you," Sherlock muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as his attention was on his experiments. It was, however, just loud enough for the doctor to hear.

Despite the small smile that the remark triggered, John didn't react to the reply. Grabbing his keys, phone and wallet, the doctor exited their flat and bounded down the stairs, a small thrill shooting through him. He, an abhorrer of normalcy and repetition, had never felt as happy as he did then, following the detective and his schedule. An indescribable amount of happiness had tinted the days in a hazy golden warmth, despite routine's normally dull composition.

Then again nothing, not even routine, was quite drab when Sherlock was involved.

A cab stopped beside the doctor, responding to his outstretched arm with far more speed than usual. The cabbie took a quick route to the pub and was neither too chatty nor completely silent, engaging in light small talk and falling into a comfortable silence. Once he arrived at his destination, John gave the driver a generous trip and all but hopped out of the vehicle. It occurred to the doctor that his exit heavily mirrored Sherlock's, and he brushed the thought aside with a chuckle. All he needed now was a coat like the detective's and a grisly murder in front of him, and he would look exactly like Sherlock.

John's mirth diminished slightly as, upon entering the establishment, he beheld Greg slumped at a table in the back, beer in hand.

"Bad day?" The doctor asked as he slid into a seat next to the detective inspector.

"I hate suicides," Greg answered, staring at his bottle. "I'd rather deal with a kidnapping, as bad as that sounds."

"I completely understand."

There was a pause as a waitress strutted to their table and took John's order. Once she left, the silence continued, though it lost some of its awkwardness. It stretched between the two men, comfortably wrapping them in the sort of silence that could only occur between good friends. The waitress returned with John's order, and the pause was broken.

"So," Lestrade began, leaning back into his seat, "what's it like, being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"It's not as different as I thought it would be."

"Well, we always said that you two were a couple."

"And you were right in the end."

Greg smirked and raised his bottle. He beamed his triumphant grin at the telly, and their conversation turned to the current sports game.

They weren't quite drunk but most definitely not sober when the detective inspector's phone rang. Rolling his eyes, Lestrade reached for it, grimacing when he read the caller id and answered it. His face fell, and his sentences grew short and clipped. The phone call was all of five minutes, but it had drastically morphed Lestrade's cheerful disposition into familiar professionalism and wariness.

"There's been another suicide," Lestrade explained, reaching into his pockets and pulling out his wallet. "Sorry I have to go so soon, but they need me."

"Do you want me to tag along?" John asked, moving to grab his coat and money should the answer be in the affirmative.

Lestrade hesitated briefly before shrugging. "Sure, if you want to," he replied nonchalantly, though his shoulders relaxed slightly. They left their payment on the table and hastily exited the pub. John moved to motion for a cab, but the detective inspector rendered the action unnecessary when he reminded the doctor that they could take his police car.

They drove past a familiar bridge, the one John had seen in the news the night before, and parked farther along the river, where the water lapped softly at a rocky shore. Lestrade's team was working with less gusto than usual; a somber atmosphere enveloping the gruesome in concept rather than detail corpse.

Even Anderson and Donavan were unusually silent, though their presence was no less annoying than usual. It was an odd sight to John, not just because they hadn't greeted him with their familiar moronic quips or insults, but also because the last time he had witnessed them dealing with a suicide that had mirrored recent predecessors, was A Study in Pink, and they hadn't kept their mouths shut.

"Matthew Williams, male, 32, found on the shore about an hour after witnesses say he threw himself off of a bridge and into the river," Donavan elaborated, striding up to the pair. Anderson's gaze was latched on the woman, though it quickly flickered away when John looked up towards the corpse in question. Her voice sounded hoarse, and she wouldn't look directly at either of the men.

"Did you know him?" John asked.

"I-" Donavan looked startled as she finally looked directly at the doctor. "Yes, I did. We went to university together; he wanted to be a journalist. We'd go to the pub together sometimes."

There was an awkward pause before the three of them returned their attention to the corpse a few feet away. The men walked closer to Matthew, and stopped when they hovered directly over him.

Matthew looked like an average man, though he had a prominent beer belly and, upon closer inspection, signs of being a nicotine addict as well as an alcoholic. His clothes were generic, a sweatshirt and jeans. He didn't wear a lot of jewelry, save for a single ring on his left middle finger. John crouched and peered at the golden ring, the only embellishment a roman numeral, VI.

"See anything?" Lestrade asked as he scribbled something into a miniature notepad.

"Well, I'm no Sherlock, but the only thing that really stands out to me is the ring. I assume you already knew he was an alcoholic and a smoker," John glanced up at the DI, who nodded once.

"I wish Sherlock was as polite as you, sometimes," Lestrade commented as John stood.

"Well, politeness comes with a cost; I probably missed numerous clues." The doctor wondered for a moment whether or not he ought to text the detective about the second suicide, but he thought better of it. Sherlock would no doubt find the suicide dull, and whatever he could deduce about the corpse would've probably caused more harm than good. Donavan lingered in the background, careful to appear busy, though John knew she was listening to their every word.

Lestrade shrugged and pocketed his notebook. "I'll leave it to my team to take Matthew to the morgue; sorry, I have to dash, but I'm behind on paperwork."

John nodded, and the men parted ways. The doctor took one last look at the scene before turning around and beginning the trek to Baker Street.

He had a funny feeling about the whole situation, one that frequented cases such as these where there was no true villain, and the committer of the crime was dead. The scars left by the act were deep, and John could feel the effects of that on the team, perhaps because he was tied to Donavan or perhaps because it was the second suicide in two days, and both were committed at the same time and place.

Thoughts of the suicide encompassed the doctor's journey back home, turning the long trip into a speedy walk. He pulled the familiar door open and trudged up the stairs, exhaustion suddenly extinguishing his energy and dampening his mood.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, his hands clasped in their familiar prayer-like position, and his stare, once fixed upon the ceiling, now bore into John.

"You didn't come back from the pub; you went to a crime scene," Sherlock deduced, swinging into a sitting position. "What happened?"

"We were at the pub when Lestrade got a call about another suicide, exactly like the one yesterday, except the jumper was male. I didn't think you would want to see the corpse."

Sherlock grimaced. "No, not particularly. Suicides are tedious."

"I think this one might be interesting, though."

"Why, because they both jumped off of a bridge? That isn't exactly an uncommon way to die."

"I suppose not," John sighed, moving into the kitchen to make a cuppa.

"Could you make me one, too?" Sherlock called.

John smiled and turned the kettle on, preparing enough for two. When the kettle had boiled and the drinks completed, John brought them into the living room and sat next to the detective, carefully handing him the steaming beverage and relaxing into his side. "So," the doctor asked, "how did your re-experimentation go?"

The detective's chest rumbled pleasantly with a soft chuckle as he began to describe how he occupied his time whilst John was away. Sherlock's baritone voice echoed throughout the otherwise silent flat and into the doctor's mind, banishing the exhaustion and gloom of the suicide.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sherlock's POV! Thank you so much for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

* * *

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the bland tan ceiling looming above him, his right arm wrapped around the sleeping doctor. The detective had made a habit of going to bed at least once a week, whether he slept or not, just to rest and be near John.

Sleep tugged seductively at his eyelids, forcing the normally insomniac detective to battle for alertness. Of course, it didn't help that John was curled around him, but the weariness that crept upon Sherlock was worth it. Besides, for the first time in weeks, he had something relatively interesting to consider in terms of casework.

Admittedly, suicides were quite bland to the detective, and out of the numerous Lestrade had drug him into over the years, only two had piqued his interest, one of which being the cabbie that had been John's first case with Sherlock. Though the doctor's perfectly-timed entrance into his life might've given that particular string of suicides more allure, they had been relatively interesting before the fourth victim. The first three deaths were tragic, he supposed, but there wasn't anything exciting about the deaths themselves; rather, it had been the circumstances of said deaths.

He didn't see why this case would be any more interesting than the cabbie had been. Sure the doctor was by his side, but that didn't make cases exponentially more exciting if there hadn't been anything unique or clever about them already. Yes, Sherlock understood that killing oneself was viewed by society as tragic, and yes there were two such deaths in two consecutive days, but that didn't make them exciting. Jumping off of bridges wasn't even an original way of killing oneself. Granted, the pills weren't either, but the locations of the corpses were. Why would people go out of their way to kill themselves at places that were irrelevant to their lives if they weren't going to use the environment in their death?

Sherlock stifled a sigh; he hated suicide cases. Emotional involvement was harder to dodge, and he would have to waste more time and energy cloaking his empathy. Listening to the deceased's friends and family blather about not being able to anticipate their untimely passing, with the occasional guilty person who had seen the signs and hadn't handled them in the way they wished they had, didn't faze him. It was practically the same as listening to a murdered person's loved ones, except for a majority of their hurt and confusion was focused on the one burdened with the role of being both the perpetrator and the victim. Of course, suicides were as unique as the people performing them, but such was the general air of that sort of death.

He knew all about suicide. The thought of it wasn't foreign to the detective in the slightest.

The temptation of death, the allure of escaping a world that ridiculed his differences, had been a constant companion throughout a majority of Sherlock's life. Death seemed to always be a part of his world, even from an early age he had been investigating murders, and to say that he hadn't possessed a morbid curiosity towards it would be entirely false. This unorthodox fascination coupled with constant berating, from peers, family, and himself, and the raging hormones which accompanied the teenage years had intimately acquainted Sherlock with suicide. It didn't involve thoughts of being a waste of space (such was a mere fact, but his corpse would prove to be more disadvantageous), or any such lark. A mere glance at a kitchen knife brought to mind numerous ways in which he could fatally wound himself, slowly or quickly; painfully or painlessly. It was the same with guns, ropes, rooftops and bridges, drugs, roads, etc.

Humans were fragile creatures, and death was a lurking presence few ever truly acquaint themselves with. Perhaps it was because of this that he began to partake in drugs; maybe Sherlock wanted to see how close he could get to death without truly dying. Perhaps it was because the voices in his head, constantly whispering information of those around him gathered through simple deduction, were finally silenced as the needle pierced his paper-thin skin and its contents injected into his bloodstream, rushing through his veins and arteries in mere seconds.

It was a weakness that Sherlock hated to possess. It was cliché, he thought, to have considered such things, even if he believed himself to have done so with more depth than others. It was a weakness that he knew John had struggled with just as intimately as Sherlock had, one that had dominated their thoughts, though both would never admit it, and one that had been banished by each other's presence. John had done so much for Sherlock, saving the detective fervently, and vice versa, each in their own way. John made Sherlock eat and sleep; Sherlock drug John on his cases.

The detective stared at the doctor's body wrapped around his lightly. A smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips, and he pulled his love closer.

Suicides were horrible and grim, but they did need something to keep them occupied, and this was the best case they had seen in weeks. If it satisfied John to investigate the deaths, then investigate they would.

Reaching for his phone with one arm, the other still securely clasping John, Sherlock squinted into the dimmed screen. Ignoring the inappropriateness of texting Lestrade in three in the morning, the detective sent a quick message to the D.I.

If another suicide occurs, text me immediately -SH

Pressing SEND, Sherlock gently placed his phone back on the nightstand and repositioned himself around the doctor.

* * *

He didn't see why he needed to eat; Sherlock had informed John that there was a corpse to investigate, but the doctor hindered the detective's swift exit with the familiar command. It wasn't necessary. John knew it would slow him down. To appease the doctor, Sherlock quickly grabbed a roll, shoved it petulantly into his mouth, and then hastily departed from the flat.

John didn't ask where they were going, but Sherlock felt his burning curiosity. This time, however, he chose to ignore it, opting for silence. Declaring that they were going to examine the bodies of the suicides felt almost like defeat. Besides, it was casual investigation merely to occupy their time. Nothing more.

They entered Bart's minutes after they left the flat, yet John's demeanor was entirely different. His hands were still, his gait confident and tall, despite his physical stature, and Sherlock bit back a smirk.

Molly moved beside them, rambling excitedly about being pleased to see them there. A question had been asked, the lilting in her voice the only indication as the words hadn't registered. Something seemed different about her. The detective stopped in front of the door to her workspace and stared at her.

(no usual signs of being flustered, nicer clothes under lab coat than normal, new shoes, different necklace around her neck- boyfriend?)

Flirting wouldn't work on her anymore, Sherlock supposed; she was clearly smitten. "Could you pull out the bodies of the two suicides, a Laura Jones and Matthew Williams?"

"Sure, they were on my list, I believe," Molly replied, moving past the men into the room. Politeness would still do the trick.

Molly deftly moved the two corpses onto tables for Sherlock to examine and unzipped their body bags.

First examining the woman, Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly. "Laura Jones. She was well-off, though that appeared to originate from a marriage rather than family inheritance or serious effort on her part, going by the calluses on her hands. Worked hard jobs when she was younger, something she wouldn't have had to do if she was previously wealthy. Overweight slightly, the only toning she possessed was the sort one would get working out at a gym every once in a while. Scratches on her legs indicated that she owned two cats. Wedding ring signs on her left ring finger, pale strip of skin where the jewelry would've rested. A perfectly ordinary woman," Sherlock muttered, only uttering the last sentence loud enough for Molly to hear.

"Brilliant," John murmured, his eyes shining as he glanced at the woman's corpse before returning his gaze to the detective. Pride swelled within Sherlock and, as his back was turned away from Molly, allowed a smile to tug his lips up.

The detective moved next to the male corpse. "Matthew Williams. Middle-class income; journalist going by the calloused middle fingers. Alcoholic and smoker, though that was obvious to you already," Sherlock looked up at John, who nodded slightly. "Single..." The detective paused, an indention on the man's left middle finger. He leaned down to look closer at the mark, then peered up at the doctor. "You saw him yesterday, do you remember if he was wearing anything here?"

John leaned forward, his eyes staring at the indention and widening slightly. "He was wearing a gold ring with the Roman numeral for six."

Gold ring... Matthew didn't look like he could afford a golden ring, so someone must've put it on him. It would've been after he died, because it could've come off during the man's time in the water, and it looked like the only purpose of the ring was to send a message.

Sherlock stood straight with forced calmness. It had appeared that there was something relatively interesting afoot.

"Come along John," The detective said, tossing his command over his shoulder as he strode out of the morgue. He needed to inspect the ring.


	5. Chapter 5

**So... It's been a while... Four months? Five? I don't know, I am too tired to figure it out. The point is, it has been far too long since I've updated, and I am very sorry for that. I began writing an original work, and it completely distracted me from fan fiction. When it finished this summer, I got swamped with visiting family and friends. I did return to this story a month ago with the intent to update it in September, but I began other projects on here and felt guilty about not updating, and here we are! **

**Thank you so much for sticking with this story despite my absence. Thank you for continuing to follow and favorite this story. Thank you AngellaCrickett, RandomDalmatian326, 1oh1, TheMysteriousGeek2345, zombified419, Dragons-And-Merlin's-Beard, hinatahime666, IndyZiggy, Texmex007, and Guest (thank you so much for pointing that out... I am so embarrassed right now) for reviewing. **

* * *

The sky shone a soft pink as the man strolled up to the bridge. The sun had just begun to rise, but the man's thoughts were on the overpass before him. It was beautifully ornate; a suitable grave for a man such as he. Of course, it was a shame that he couldn't be properly dressed. He shrugged the thought aside blandly; it didn't really matter anymore, now did it? He'd fade into blessed nothingness regardless of his outward appearance.

His hands felt naked as they swung helplessly in time with his legs. He brought the uncomfortable limbs atop the railing and leaned against it.

He'd changed locations due to the mass of police swarming the other bridge. Apparently, two suicides were enough to bring a whole division to their knees.

How pathetic.

There were few witnesses milling about, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. On one hand, the relative privacy provided was a blessing, but on another, it was disappointing to find that his passing would be seen by so few.

Then again, he'd also always imagined going out in a blaze of fire and glory; instead, he was falling into water. Not exactly glorious, but glory was irrelevant. To go out in glory meant making an impact on others, meant wasting his precious resources on the undeserving public.

No, he thought as he swung his body over the railing, the situation was nothing if not pathetic.

* * *

John fell silent as he followed the detective out of the morgue. He smothered his impatience; he knew that it would do no good. The cabbie would drive slower, and Sherlock's enigmatic reclusive behavior would drive him insane. No, the doctor would keep his feelings to himself.

He faced the window as Sherlock told the driver, a middle aged woman, to take them to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock sat completely still beside the doctor, his stiffness contrasting sharply to the doctor's relaxed, slightly jittery, figure. John vaguely wondered what they must look like to the woman, whose gaze flickered every so often from the road ahead to the pair in her back seat. Creases of confusion lined her forehead, and she stared intently at them as they slowed to a stop beside the building.

Sherlock didn't spare a backward glance as he flung himself from the cab without waiting for it to completely stop. John hastily paid for the trip and fled the parked vehicle. The doctor rolled his eyes and briefly considered following the detective at a leisurely pace out of sheer spite. Before he could act on his thoughts, the detective's confident stride slowed slightly, and his head tilted to the right. He could barely see the detective's eye discreetly trained on him, but it was enough to distract John from his previous thoughts.

The doctor's feet moved of their own accord, and he caught up with the detective quickly.

Sometimes, John was convinced Sherlock could read his mind.

Once John arrived at the detective's side, they continued forward at a quicker pace. Sally Donavan caught them halfway to his office and threw a halfhearted glare at Sherlock. The doctor wasn't sure if the unusual behavior was due to her friend's suicide or the talk she'd had with John weeks ago, but either way, he was thankful for her mellowed actions. It was annoying to listen to her hound them about Sherlock's 'interference' and John's need to find a new hobby.

Their trek to Lestrade's office was otherwise uneventful. Once they arrived, Lestrade stared at the two in confusion.

"I didn't text you, Sherlock," the D.I. said as he lowered a powdered doughnut to the desk.

"I need to see the golden ring," Sherlock replied.

"Which one?"

"Both." Sherlock paused and looked at John. "You didn't tell me there were two."

The doctor's cheeks heated in embarrassment. "I didn't think to ask. We weren't entirely sober, you know."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Sherlock has no right to comment on that; you should've seen him when we first met. Completely wasted, and on more than one occasion," The D.I. replied as he stood from his desk and exited his office.

"And yet," Sherlock replied as they followed Lestrade, "I solved cases for you in minutes, whereas you and your team would've taken days or weeks."

John rolled his eyes but made no comment. The three entered a room filled with cabinets. Lestrade strode to one and pulled two bags. He brought them to the pair, and Sherlock, after quickly slipping on leather gloves, clasped the two rings. Both were golden, and both held Roman Numerals, though they were different. One held the number VII while the other VI.

"Pure gold, all the way through," Sherlock murmured.

"Last night, John said he thought that someone had slipped the ring on Matthew after his corpse was found," Lestrade commented.

"Obviously," The detective scoffed, though his gaze held a hint of pride as it rested on the doctor. "Neither of these people would've worn the rings of their own volition; Matthew couldn't have afforded it, and Laura wouldn't have liked the design."

The detective inspector opened his mouth, but his reply was interrupted by his phone. It rang shrilly, and all eyes leapt to the object as Lestrade sighed and answered it. His voice was clipped and professional once again, prompting the doctor to the call's purpose.

"There's been another," John murmured.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade glared at the two as he continued his conversation. It ended almost as quickly as it began, and when it was over, he confirmed the doctor's assumption. Another man had jumped off of a different bridge, and his body had been located. After informing the detective of the corpse's whereabouts, the three left to visit the scene, John and Sherlock in a cab. Lestrade opted to take his own vehicle, annoyed with Sherlock's refusal to join him, but aware that his objections would have little impact.

The cab ride was short; they quickly arrived at the scene. Much like the previous night, Lestrade's team swarmed around the body with awkward melancholy.

Lestrade loomed over the corpse as Donavan filled him in on the man's identity. As the detective and doctor approached, she fell silent and the D.I. looked up. Sherlock's eyes flitted over the slim man's body, taking in the tattered Westwood suit and other numerous details. John's eyes immediately flew from the suit to the man's bejeweled hand.

Or once-bejeweled hand, John silently amended. Even though the hands were extremely pale, there were lines of whiter skin and slight indents that would've indicated several rings were, at one point, adorning his hand. The only ring gracing the limb now was a golden ring, almost identical to the others, save the Roman Numeral. This time, it was a simple V.

Beyond that, the doctor didn't notice anything. He couldn't, not when thoughts of the suicide began to swarm his mind.

The visit to Matthew's corpse the previous evening had been dulled with alcohol. As a result, John hadn't really thought about the action itself until that moment, when his eyes fell upon the tattered suit clothing the limp, drenched body. He couldn't help but think that that would've been him had Sherlock not burst into his life. The doctor would've been dead had Mike Stamford not introduced the two.

Lestrade and John exchanged glances over Sherlock's hunched form. Stamford and Lestrade, the doctor amended.

Sherlock rose to his full height as his deductions were finished.

"Well?" Lestrade asked.

"Single and a banker, from the looks of it. Bit of a drinker, though more so recently, indicating stress. The suit is an older cut, even through the water damage, its age is distinctive. There were multiple rings upon his fingers at one point, yet this is the only one that remains," Sherlock elaborated as he retrieved the ring from the man's finger. "Pure gold, yet again. It is more likely that this man-"

"Travis Lee," Lestrade supplied.

"-would've worn the ring of his own volition," Sherlock continued, "yet this hand is dryer than the others, and the ring isn't wet, which would indicate that he didn't wear it."

"We've already scanned for fingerprints; there's no prints on them but theirs."

An air of discomfort settled around them as they stared at the body. Sherlock huffed; the lack of fingerprints wasn't helpful, nor was it unexpected.

For the first time, John regretted getting involved. He wasn't sure how these suicides could be connected. What if it was just a sick prank? The doctor debated voicing his doubts, but before he could, the detective sauntered away from the corpse. Sherlock muttered something under his breath, though John only caught the last bit.

"-waste of my time investigating human error."

Fury rooted John to the spot, immobilizing him despite his dislike of suicidal crime scenes. John shouldn't really have been shocked at Sherlock's words, but they stung all the same, regardless of whether or not they ought to have been anticipated. Logically, the doctor should've braced himself for the detective's rudeness; however, logic and emotion weren't always on the same page.

"Are you alright, mate?" Lestrade asked, his tone painfully familiar. Memories of that night entered his mind, unbidden. The question spoken by a complete stranger in the middle of a night, one where inhibitions were lowered by too much alcohol-

"Fine," John snapped as he intently avoided the D.I.'s gaze.

Lestrade sighed and looked away. After a brief, awkward pause, he cleared his throat and began again. "Do you think someone's trying to copy the cabbie? A string of suicides with mysterious events, a mix of people, and a half-interested detective? Sounds familiar, does it not?"

"Honestly, I haven't got the faintest," John replied as he spared a last glance at the corpse before forcing himself to part with the D.I. and lumbering after the waiting detective.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for favoriting, following and reading. Thank you AngellaCrickett, hinatahime666, zombified419, TheMysteriousGeek2345, RainyDays-and-DayDreams, and texmex007 for reviewing.**

* * *

John was annoyed. Beyond annoyed, actually. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to spout enigmatic deductions and flounce off afterwards- without explanation- but it frustrated the doctor immensely today, and Sherlock's comment sent John over the edge.

What was he supposed to deduce from Sherlock's actions? The detective's current behavior usually only accompanied cases that intrigued him, yet Sherlock acted as if the case was beneath him. He couldn't apologize, nor was he fluent in verbal gratitude, but Sherlock always spoke his mind about the case.

John didn't understand why it bothered him so much. Sherlock pissed him off all the time; how was this any different? Logically, it shouldn't affect him so strongly.

Of course, the doctor didn't eat, sleep, and breathe logic. He was a human with human emotions, and he was capable of acknowledging the existence of both. Currently, John's emotions were in a whirlwind; all he wanted to do was solve the case. He was certain that there was something wrong with the three suicides. There had to have been, right?

_Or you just don't like that Sherlock's cold demeanor hasn't thawed simply because these people died by their own hand, _his logic whispered to him, a sliver of Sherlock's constant analysis mentally berating John.

Was it really so absurd to be upset, though?

At the crime scene, John hadn't thought much about his past, but as they walked home, corpse no longer providing a professional mental barrier, memories of his past swallowed the doctor whole. All he could think about was his previous lust, his fatal flirts with death. The times he dreamed of ending it all, of escaping dull reality. He didn't care whether hell or heaven or sheer nothingness would greet whatever remained of him; he just wanted out.

He'd always been stopped from his efforts, always found that no matter how bored or sick of life he was, John possessed a wild desire to live. Of course, said desire was only present to prevent him from doing what everything else in him craved to do, but it waned slowly over time, until one night, John drank enough to obliterate his restraint. He was done; he could be free.

John had found himself stumbling toward a bridge. Before he could comprehend his actions, the doctor was climbing atop the railing. It was theatrical and embarrassing, but at that time, it had seemed fitting. If John Watson was going to go out, it would be with a bang, metaphorically (though afterwards, sober and cocooned in the privacy of his flat, he'd considered using his gun). A man had found him and managed to talk him down from the ledge. As it turned out, the desire to live was rendered dormant, not nonexistent, by the alcohol, and it awoke with the stranger's pleas.

A week later, Stamford had introduced John to Sherlock, and, inadvertently, the man who'd saved him: Greg Lestrade.

"Something's bothering you," the aforementioned detective observed, his voice a gentle murmur as it pulled the doctor from his thoughts.

Rather than soothe John, the comment fueled his anger. It seemed to agree with his thoughts; it confirmed John's analysis. The one time the doctor wanted to be wrong, he wasn't. Irrational fury continued to churn through John, but he pushed it down and away. He didn't want to deal with it now, not when the pair had decided to walk back to the flat. Not when his anger would be unleashed for the world to see and mock.

He'd get plenty of that from Sherlock.

"It would be beneficial for us both if you talked about it," Sherlock continued somewhat awkwardly.

After a pause, John spoke. He controlled his tone and chose his words carefully. Despite his growing aggravation, the doctor still didn't want to pick a fight with Sherlock. He knew what the detective's reaction would be, knew that expecting anything different would result in disappointment. "I was just thinking about the suicides."

"You're not a very good liar." Sherlock's gaze flickered to the doctor beside him before sharply returning to the path ahead. "I thought that perhaps you would feel more comfortable speaking to me considering our... partnership."

The words didn't have their desired effect on John; he sucked in a breath and restrained a frustrated groan. "Not this Sherlock. I don't want to talk about the suicides."

A frosty silence encompassed the pair as they continued walking to the flat. Sherlock didn't look at John again, and the doctor felt guilt's icy claws wrap themselves around his heart, trapping his frustration while denouncing it. He knew it was irrational to be upset about Sherlock's behavior; it wasn't as if being in a relationship with the man would result in a complete personality change. Flaws weren't erased merely because one was loved.

John was a flawed creature too. To be upset with Sherlock felt hypocritical, yet he couldn't shake off his annoyance. Rather than weaken with his internal musings, the doctor's frustration flourished. It spread throughout the corners of his mind, infesting his every thought. It twisted and thickened, adapting to his mounting distress.

He'd fallen in love with the detective, a man, a _human. _With humanity came flaws; they were inseparable. John knew that, knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt, but was it so wrong to wish that Sherlock could cease his apathy for this one case? Was it so wrong to demand that the detective actually give a damn about the suicides?

They reached the flat, and the detective stormed in, coat billowing behind him as he pushed past John. Their bodies didn't touch, but the gesture struck the doctor as harshly as if Sherlock had rammed into him. Sherlock took the stairs by twos and ignored Mrs. Hudson's anxious titters.

"Oh John," she said as the detective silently closed the door behind him. "Are you boys investigating the suicides? Is that what Sherlock's in a mood about?"

The guilt clenched John tighter, and the frustration screamed in retaliation. "No, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, "Sherlock doesn't care about suicide in the slightest."

Her eyes flashed with pity, and the doctor moved forward. "With good reason, I'd imagine."

John froze on the stairs and faced the woman. "What do you mean?"

"Oh dear, I thought... Well, you wouldn't want to listen to me prattle on." Mrs. Hudson chuckled and rushed into her flat. "Good luck with the investigation!"

John stood on the steps for a few minutes after she left, confused and worried by her words. Curiosity added itself to the toxic mix of emotions, and the doctor toyed with the idea of confronting Sherlock. He had his suspicions about what she meant, but John wasn't sure if he wanted to approach the subject. John didn't want to have his anger confirmed as irrational aloud, didn't want to acknowledge the immaturity of his emotions.

So, the doctor continued forward. He entered their flat and consoled himself with the idea of brushing past Sherlock with identical, if not greater, coldness. However, John's plans were ruined as the detective was nowhere in sight. John sighed and busied himself with making tea. As he moved about the kitchen, the doctor glimpsed the file Mycroft had given them. A smile stretched across his face; what better way to snub Sherlock than by obeying Mycroft?

Immediately, exhaustion flooded John. It washed away his anger, his pride, his hurt; it left him empty and weak. Suddenly, he longed to wrap himself around the detective, longed to be with the man he loved. The suicides were far from the doctor's mind as he wrapped his hands around the warm mug and drank the tea. His eyes flitted to the file every so often; he knew that at some point, it would need reading, but not now. Not then.

John chugged the beverage and held the file in his hands. He slunk upstairs, to his old room, and set the file on his old bed.

The room wasn't used very often, not since the Bender case, but they kept it for whatever reason. It was relatively empty; most of his belongings were downstairs, in the room that currently felt horribly less theirs and more Sherlock's. The doctor stared at the discarded file for a minute, vowing to page through it later, after he'd set things right with Sherlock.

The doctor sped down the stairs, and he found that the door to Sherlock's room was wide open. Expecting the detective experimenting in the kitchen or sulking on the couch, John walked through the living room and was disappointed with an empty flat. He sunk into the couch, exasperated with both himself and the elusive detective.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you for favoriting, following and reading. Thank you AngellaCrickett, quercus sp, and RainyDays-and-DayDreams for reviewing. **

* * *

The woman lounged on the bench and stared at the throng of people threading through the trees and along the sidewalk. Some paused on the bridge, and some rushed past it. Either way, it seemed that everyone she saw avoided looking at the water coursing below.

Police men and women were scattered throughout the crowd, their presence thick and tangible despite their few numbers. There couldn't have been more than ten, but it felt as though the whole department was present. It would, of course, be illogical to assume so, as there was more than one bridge in their area, yet the idea wouldn't leave her thoughts.

Her skin crawled as she imagined the ordinarily-dressed people concealing their identities as policemen and women through the abandonment of their uniform. She chuckled quietly at her paranoia.

At one point in her life, the woman wouldn't have stared at the people in such a manner. She would've admired their beauty (or disparaged the lack thereof), not searched for evidence of opposition to her true purpose. Briefly, she considered darting through the people and throwing herself off of the bridge; however, the idea was quickly rebuked. Too obvious. She'd be caught before she could reach the edge.

Two suicides had never occurred on the same day, though; perhaps she could sneak through and dispose of herself without getting caught. They'd still try to save her, but maybe if she moved fast enough, she'd be successful.

Fingering the flashy heart-shaped pendant her latest fling gave her, she drew comfort from the gift, loving the way it hung heavily from her neck, heated by the warmth of her cool skin. She'd always had a thing for necklaces.

She stood from the bench and wove through the crowd. Eyes fell upon her, familiar in their desire, though the attention had little impact on her. Another time, she would've struck conversation with them, enough to establish an acquaintanceship and convey her desire. If she was lucky, which was more often than not, they'd mirror her attraction, and they'd leave together or meet up later that night. Now, she ignored them; her only desire was to reach the railing.

Upon doing so, a smile flitted across her face. Happiness swelled within her, an emotion unexperienced for far too long, at her meager success. She paused before gripping the railing and flinging herself over it. Surprised voices rose above the crowd's chatter, but they were immediately silenced by her body hitting the water.

She didn't resist its cold grasp; rather, she inhaled sharply, ingesting as much water as possible. Her lungs burned, and her body resisted her efforts, but she pressed on, ignoring the sudden urge to live until it faded away completely. The world around her slid into a haze as the river roughly tossed her body. She stretched her lips into a smile as the last wisps of consciousness were extinguished.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't shake the discomfort from his body as he left the crime scene. If one could call it that, considering it was hardly a crime to kill oneself. Perhaps it ought to be, though.

It was hardly appropriate to be so shaken from the scene, yet the detective found himself fighting for control, fighting to keep his apathetic mask in place. It didn't help that John was flustered too.

Suicides were something the detective hated, yes, but he investigated for John's sake, not his own. Well, not entirely his own. Truth be told, Sherlock was equally bored, if not more so; however, he usually wouldn't take these sorts of cases. He didn't really understand why he was needed, not until he saw the rings. There was an air of mystery about them, one that intrigued the detective.

John seemed just as put off by the scene as he. It really wouldn't do to have the doctor so distracted. Usually, John's presence had a soothing effect, but at that moment, it grated on the detective's nerves.

"Something's bothering you," Sherlock commented. Perhaps John would calm down if he talked about whatever was bothering him.

Rather than soothe John, it seemed to further irritate him. The detective was at a loss; emotions still confounded him. He knew he loved John, and confessing that had ended pleasantly, but a result of his revelation was not sudden understanding of all emotions. He wasn't an idiot, though; he knew that the source of John's discomfort was the suicides. He knew that both of them had experience with suicides and suicidal thoughts, but he hadn't thought about this being a trigger.

"It would be beneficial for us both if you talked about it," Sherlock continued somewhat awkwardly.

After a pause, John spoke. "I was just thinking about the suicides."

_Obviously. _That would be on the doctor's mind, except he wouldn't look at the detective, and he clenched his hands. Sherlock suppressed the urge to sigh; he'd thought that John would've actually wanted to talk to him about it. God knows the doctor usually spoke his mind when Sherlock and distaste were involved, so why wouldn't he now? Pain surged through the detective; he'd thought they were past concealing tumultuous emotions.

"You're not a very good liar." Sherlock's gaze flickered to the doctor beside him before sharply returning to the path ahead. John's gait was resolute; it would take more to pull the truth from him. Emotion for emotion. Ignoring a twinge of discomfort, Sherlock continued. "I thought that perhaps you would feel more comfortable speaking to me considering our partnership."

"Not this Sherlock. I don't want to talk about the suicides."

The detective fell silent at John's sharp tone, sensing that the conversation was over and, if continued, would result in a fight. One which Sherlock would've plunged into regardless of the results had his final plea not been considered. His resolve had stood firm despite Sherlock's reminder of their relationship; in fact, it seemed that his comment fueled the doctor's discomfort rather than soothe it.

A tendril of fear slithered through Sherlock's mind, but he pushed it aside. The emotion diminished easily; he'd mastered controlling sentiment for years. John Watson wasn't about to unravel him, wasn't about to change the detective. That wasn't the sort of relationship they had. Sherlock wasn't out to change the doctor, and it didn't seem that John wanted to change the detective.

Anger surged through Sherlock. It wasn't exactly true anymore, now was it? The detective couldn't control his feelings, and the man he'd used to be certainly wouldn't have allowed the weakness to continue, much less acknowledge it, accept it, and proclaim it. He wouldn't have entered into a relationship with the object of his affection, nor would he have dragged himself through a pointless string of suicides before John had _contaminated _him.

Human error, he'd always called it, and so it was. Sherlock had put himself into a situation he hated for John, and the doctor was mad at him for whatever reason. The detective didn't have to waste his time on a pointless suicide. So what, the corpses wore numbered rings; was that really supposed to intrigue him? Seriously, was that the best they had?

Their flat loomed before Sherlock, simultaneously welcoming and revolting. Constricting spaces meant a higher likelihood of a fight between him and his flat mate, but it also meant privacy.

The detective rushed past the doctor, anger mounting as John made conversation with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock ignored them as best he could, his eyes roaming about the flat as he considered his options. He could sulk on the couch, but that would most likely be interrupted by the doctor, and Sherlock didn't feel like talking. He'd put himself out there enough for one day. He could play the violin, but that too would attract John's attention, most likely in a negative way. The detective turned toward the kitchen. He could-

The file Mycroft had shoved in Sherlock's face nights ago rested innocently atop the counter, and curiosity tugged at the detective. There was almost complete silence, neither the sound of footsteps nor conversation could be heard. Sherlock glanced at the door, then back at the table, before treading softly to the file. He felt exposed and wrong, but he pushed the sensation aside as he inspected the file.

Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man who liked to curse. It was vulgar, and there were better ways to express one's frustration; however, upon reading the file, the detective's thoughts were strings of inelegant curses. Mycroft hadn't angered him so strongly in years. His hands shook as he took the papers. It wasn't fit for their flat, wasn't fit for their life.

Voices floated upward, along with another pause, and Sherlock snuck into the office. Thankfully, he had a file of unopened files from Mycroft. Grabbing a recent file, the detective all but ran into the kitchen and placed it exactly where the other had been, quickly and quietly.

Conversation halted downstairs; Sherlock inspected the table one last time before slinking into their room, closing and locking the door behind him.

A moment passed, a moment of rapid heartbeats and very controlled breathing, before John could be heard shuffling about. His footsteps drew near to their room, and stopped. Sherlock had hid the files, so logically, he shouldn't worry about John seeing them, but the detective panicked slightly all the same. John walked away, and Sherlock sighed in relief. He sunk down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't his usual spot, but he could focus there all the same; his mind palace wasn't restricted to any one area. Stifling his discomfort and the irritation that accompanied the old habit, Sherlock analyzed John's reactions from earlier, taking into account every option, every explanation.

His phone buzzed after a few minutes of deduction. He ignored the interruption and returned to his thoughts. They refused to regroup properly, however, prompting the detective to read the message.

There's been another suicide. We just found the body. -G.L.

Sherlock's fingers hesitated over the keypad. On one hand, the suicides were incredibly dull, but on another, it wasn't as though the flat would be pleasant or entertaining. He wasn't getting anywhere with John; perhaps he'd operate better without the doctor this time.

Where? -S.H

* * *

As it turned out, Sherlock did see something different. Whether that had anything to do with John's absence, however, was unlikely.

This time, the woman didn't appear to be a victim of suicide.

She was a woman in her late twenties, vibrant and beautiful despite her state. She'd been sexually active, though not riddled with life-threatening diseases, of that sort or any in general. There were no signs of a wedding ring, nor any others, yet the golden numeral shone from her hand. No other jewelry had been adorning the woman; however, when Sherlock noticed a strange bulge in one of her pockets, he found a heart-shaped pendant shoved inside.

(string of one night stands, none of which recent, though pendant indicates a steady partner; partier; rich family; doesn't care about money)

Something about her death struck Sherlock as odd. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was certain she wasn't the suicidal type. He'd seen plenty of them, and, while clearly she'd been capable of suicide, she wasn't like most he'd seen.

Sherlock left the crime scene, demanding toxicology reports, and all other information to be sent to his flat. He wasn't sure what made her different, but he was going to find out. With arms full and a grumbling Lestrade bumbling along behind him, Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street, expelling, though not deleting, all thoughts of the former tension between him and John.

He wouldn't let himself be distracted a second time.


	8. Chapter 8

**I do apologize for the sporadic updating, but things have gotten pretty hectic, and my desire to update this story weekly may have to go unfulfilled. Regardless, I will _not _give up on this story. Even if it takes me two years (though I certainly hope not) to complete.**

**Thank you for reading, following, and favoriting! Thank you lovebites123, AngellaCrickett, and hinatahime666 for reviewing! **

* * *

John didn't know how to react to the empty flat. He was disappointed, though not surprised. His actions weren't something he was proud of; however, that didn't mean he wanted to talk about the suicides. The detective's disdain for them was obvious, and John didn't want to receive the same treatment should Sherlock find that he had, at one point, considered their actions.

He knew that Sherlock understood suicidal thoughts, and he knew that the detective was aware of the doctor's depression upon returning to London, psychologically injured and alone. Being the genius Sherlock was, there was little doubt in John's mind that he'd in the very least assumed that John had, at one point in his life, experienced suicidal thoughts. That wasn't an issue to John; the issue was the insensitivity. The issue was that if Sherlock couldn't respect others who'd felt the same, how could he respect John?

Immediately, the doctor felt foolish. Sherlock was insensitive, yes, but he'd never disparaged John about serious matters, about his personal failures. Besides, John was the exception, wasn't he? Even if Sherlock felt animosity toward the suicides, wouldn't John be spared, since the detective cared about him?

He sunk into the couch and sighed. When John really considered the crime scene, really thought about it, the detective's actions struck him as odd, though not out of character. Sherlock was always snippier than normal when flustered or uncomfortable. John was ashamed of himself for noticing the deeper meaning so late, for demanding special treatment when he couldn't even discern Sherlock's obvious discomfort.

The doctor sat for a few minutes, the silence awkward and impossibly loud. He strained to hear anything, even the smallest sound, but none presented themselves. The world seemed to have paused, waiting for John to say or do something, or for Sherlock to burst into their flat, calm and collected as ever with chemicals, organs, or a crime to investigate. At least, that's what it felt like to John. The thought of the world pausing for the two of them had him breaking the silence with a breathless, self-deprecating laugh. Sherlock's melodramatic and egotistic behavior seemed to have rubbed off on the unassuming doctor.

He rose from the seat and plodded to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, his eyes immediately snagging on the liver and kidneys gracing the bottom shelf, one under the desired item: beer. He reached for the bottle before hesitating. Did he really want Sherlock to come home and find that he'd been drinking? Granted, John had downed one earlier, in a failed attempt to eradicate his anxiety, and a second beer was hardly enough to get him drunk, but the implications, however incorrect given the doctor's attitude change, wouldn't aid the situation.

John turned away from the fridge and began to make tea instead. Tea was calming, and Sherlock had always liked his, though John hadn't understood the preference. He didn't make it any differently than other people.

He made two cups and set one atop the side table, where Sherlock would see. John grabbed his old, worn copy of _The Hobbit _and began reading.

He'd gotten to the part where Bilbo changed his mind about staying home when Sherlock arrived.

The detective slowly ascended the stairs, every step just loud enough for John to hear and agonize over. Sherlock was moving too slowly, but John resisted the urge to acknowledge him through verbal or physical means until he entered the flat, and he forced himself to continue reading. John's eyes focused on the same portion, until it was practically memorized, before Sherlock stepped into the living room and glanced at the tea before focusing on John.

"Never took you for the fantasy type," Sherlock commented as he reached for his tea.

John shrugged. "I'm not picky; I'll read almost anything, but this is one of my favorites."

Sherlock nodded and sipped his tea, never taking his eyes off of the doctor. He was used to the attention, but it made him squirm considering their previous interactions. John tried to be quiet as long as possible and allow the detective silent scrutiny, but his restraint didn't hold for long.

"Where were you?" John blurted. Sherlock's expression, carefully apathetic, seemed to falter at the innocent question.

"There was another suicide. I didn't think you'd want to be there."

"Suicides are unpleasant, but I don't mind going if you want me with you," John replied.

Sherlock's emotionless mask slipped for a split second, and fear flashed across his face. He scrutinized John, and this time, the doctor wasn't uncomfortable. A soft smile stretched across his face in an effort to put the detective at ease, but it seemed to worsen his mood. It seemed that words, and words alone, would soothe Sherlock, which brought discomfort to John. He wasn't good at verbalizing emotions, not at serious moments such as those. Only days ago, he'd said 'I love you' to him, and that was in a lighthearted conversation. He could do lighthearted, but this? This wasn't lighthearted at all. He stared at his shoes and sighed.

"I thought-"

"Blimy Sherlock, if you're going to demand my time and evidence, the least you could do is help me," Lestrade interrupted, his voice booming from downstairs.

As sounds of Lestrade's entrance floated upward, John's courage melted away. Sherlock's somber, disappointed, expression didn't falter. The detective sniffed disdainfully, and his gaze grew frostier.

"You've been drinking," Sherlock muttered.

"It was just-"

The detective scoffed and turned away to face the breathless detective inspector. Lestrade, arms laden with files and plastic bags, lumbered into the living room and paused, searching for a surface to empty his load upon. John burst into action, making to answer the unasked request, when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"You can just set them on the floor for now, Lestrade."

Lestrade stared at John, bewildered, before sighing heavily and carefully obeying the strange request. Sherlock plopped elegantly to the ground and immediately began leafing through the files.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Is everything alright?" Lestrade asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Perfectly fine," Sherlock murmured without otherwise acknowledging the two men.

John suppressed a sigh and moved into the kitchen robotically, a desire to seek respite from the detective's agonizing presence. Between annoyance at himself and Sherlock, the doctor could hardly think straight. Lestrade's footsteps trailed John predictably after a pause.

"Are you sure everything's alright with him?" Lestrade asked once they were out of earshot. "He was perfectly fine two weeks ago."

"I don't know what's going on," John replied.

The D.I.'s gaze swept over the doctor in sympathy. "You should talk to him."

A bitter huff mascaraing as a chuckle was John's only reply.

"I'm serious. If you two don't sort out your problems now, things will only get worse." Lestrade patted John's shoulder reassuringly before striding into the living room.

John could hear the beginnings of conversation stirring sleepily in the silence like a bear awakening before hibernation, and he stared at his detective sitting in the middle of organized chaos, frustration painfully evident in his tense posture. He longed to return his love to his previous state of content happiness; he damned the suicides for tampering with their relationship.

If only he could remove Sherlock from the toxic case, if not indefinitely, then at least until their issues were sorted out, It did neither of them any good to continue operating under the current circumstances, not when John could fix it.

Triumph surged through John as he remembered the case Mycroft had left them days ago. Hopefully, that would provide proper respite from the suicides. The doctor was confident that he could eventually persuade the detective to take a break from the current case.

It was ironic that the potential antidote to their toxic situation was a gift from Mycroft.


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm sorry, again, for not updating for over a month. Some personal issues have been extremely time-consuming, and what little time I have had to myself I've spent on family or editing some original pieces. **

**I am trying to get back to updating on this site weekly; it is difficult, but I think I will be able to return to my normal patterns of updating soonish. **

* * *

His wife's screams echoed beautifully, if not slightly painfully, throughout their comfortable house. She tried to alert her children, tried to rouse them from their slumbers and send them fleeing; perhaps she believed this would save them. Perhaps her pathetic surrender was an attempt to sacrifice herself for her children.

Oh, if only she knew that their slumbers were a tad bit more permanent; if only she'd taken into consideration that the murders were anything but a crime of pure passion, of pushed boundaries and heated emotions.

If only she hadn't underestimated her husband, though her obliviousness worked in his favor. It wouldn't have been as entertaining to slaughter his family if they weren't surprised, if their faces hadn't contorted into the most beautifully petrified and bewildered expressions before he'd plunged his blade into their stomachs.

His wife shuddered, her high-pitched sobbing less thrilling and more aggravating than her screams. Sobbing meant surrender, meant salty tears and clinging hands and _please Tom please-_

Tom stabbed her and dropped her dying body to the kitchen floor, the gentle thud reverberating throughout his being. With the sickening sound, the toxic fog of anger swirling in his mind faded into oblivion, replaced with empty mortification.

_Oh my God, what have I done? _

Tom fled up the stairs, his voice shrill as he called for his children, demanding them to awaken from their permanent slumbers. The answering silence was deafening, overwhelming; Tom couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't remember why he'd killed them. When had his petty agitation escalated so drastically?

The sight of his children's blood drenching the upstairs overpowered him, agonizing beyond comprehension. He wasn't a father any more, wasn't a husband, wasn't a future grandfather, wasn't even a free man any more. There was only one thing he could do, one thing that would cleanse himself of his murderous actions.

Tom stumbled downstairs to the master bathroom, where the large bathtub stood, a ticket to freedom from his life on the earth. Shakily, he turned the knobs and watched the cold water fill the tub, enraptured. The water lapped pleasantly against the walls, splashing as he entered the icy pool fully-clothed. The blood staining his skin and clothes tainted the water a faint pink.

He shuddered, then slowly submerged himself under the water.

* * *

John's flight upstairs snagged Sherlock's attention, forcing him to abandon his strictly case-related analysis in favor of his doctor. The detective allowed himself to pause momentarily, his body still as his eyes flickered from the empty staircase and Lestrade's hopeful gaze. His ears strained against the silence, searching for sounds of John upstairs-

"This can't go on much longer between you two, Sherlock," Lestrade babbled. "You guys can't keep fighting like this."

The detective narrowed his gaze in silent anger, willing the detective inspector to stop talking. Of course, the pig-headed man continued blathering regardless of Sherlock's obvious disapproval. Briefly, Sherlock considered replying, considered explaining himself, but he exterminated those thoughts as quickly as they surfaced.

Explaining himself would only awaken his emotions, and he'd suppressed them entirely the moment he detected alcohol in John's system. No matter how little coursed through John's veins, the detective refused to allow the drug to further pollute their situation.

The detective returned to arranging information on the suicides on the wall, observing connections and deducing as he worked.

John plodded down the stairs, his journey awkward and slow. As the doctor descended into view, Sherlock's heart stopped; in his tan hands, John clasped the files he'd tampered with. The detective fought for composure as his partner grinned hesitantly at him and held the file out.

"We could always take a break from this, Sherlock; your brother did give us an important case," John said.

Sherlock stepped forward and gently took the file from John's hand. "We'll do this case once the suicides are solved; I think they will be resolved soon." The detective kept his voice light as he set the case atop the cluttered desk and continued transferring the evidence.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Lestrade move to the file and begin to read it. Panic swelled within the detective; he knew it was only a matter of time before his deception was revealed. Briefly, he considered ordering Lestrade to stop reading it, but he quickly discarded the idea. It would bring too much attention to the file; he could only hope that Lestrade's discovery was mute or nonexistent.

"What are your thoughts?" John asked when the detective was finished, him and Lestrade directing their full attention to the case as they moved closer. The three men stood in front of the cluttered wall, staring at the compilation of information with avid interest. The detective allowed for a few minutes of analyzing before he answered the question.

"There isn't anything that connects all of the current suicides, save for their deaths themselves," Sherlock explained. "But, Laura Jones and Ida Michaelson both visited the same therapist: Luke Winters; Ida was a diagnosed nymphomaniac, and Laura was severely depressed, according to the reports."

"What about the other two suicides?" Lestrade asked. "Matthew Williams and Travis Lee?"

"Neither of the men have connections with Luke. Matthew William's addictions, nonexistent marital status, and average income are plausible explanations for suicide, but Travis Lee was a CEO with a family of four, a three story mansion, and a beautiful wife."

"Trouble in paradise, maybe?" John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "No indications of financial problems, and the status of their marriage is inconsequential to this investigation."

"Sherlock, an affair can be devastating," Lestrade argued.

"Yes, but look, really look at Travis. Does he strike you as the sort of man who would kill himself because his wife was unfaithful?"

"He could've been humiliated by how that affected his reputation," John argued.

"You're missing my point. If someone were to wrong Travis, whether a stranger on the road or his wife, don't you think he'd be more hostile? This is a man who worked hard, who fought to earn a top position. He wouldn't harm himself if his wife was unfaithful; he would hurt his wife. His is the only suicide that I do not understand."

"So, you think someone forced him to do it?" Lestrade asked.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "Other than the suicides, these victims led relatively normal lives. What they would gain from these deaths remains a mystery."

The doorbell rang, and the men looked at each other. John straightened and left to open the door. As soon as he'd begun to descend the stairs, Lestrade turned on Sherlock.

"What did you do to the files?"

Sherlock fought against his rising apprehension. "What do you mean?"

"The case your brother put in the file, you replaced it, didn't you? Mycroft wouldn't give you a solved case, not if there was no new information for it. What are you hiding? Why are you lying to John?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, yes you do, Sherlock; I'm not blind. I may not be as smart as you are, but that doesn't make me stupid. You're lying to John; it's no wonder you two are having problems."

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed. "This doesn't concern you; you have no right to-"

Lestrade's phone rang, harshly interrupting the detective's tirade. With a baleful glare, the detective inspector answered his phone, barking one-syllable replies, his face falling with every passing minute.

"Donovan says they found a man drowned in his bathtub wearing a golden ring with the Roman Numerals III, and his wife and three children were all stabbed to death."

"Sherlock, we've got a client," John explained as he reentered the living room, followed by a middle-aged woman in a blue dress. Lestrade strode to the door where his coat hung.

"Not now, John, we-"

"Please, Mr. Holmes, you must help my husband; he's being targeted, and I don't know why," she rambled. "All I know is that everyone I know is killing themselves, and they're all wearing rings nearly identical to my husband's."


	10. Chapter 10

**So, today is the one-year anniversary of Sang. I can't believe it's been a year since this series started! Thank you for sticking around despite my horrible updating patterns and idiotic writing. You're the best, and I appreciate it very much :)**

**Speaking of idiocy, I accidently gave one of the suicides two names. Clark Holders and Travis Lee were the same person, but I chose his name to officially be Travis Lee. I apologize for any confusion that may have caused.**

* * *

John was slightly irritated by the woman, her invasive entrance trampling his frayed nerves.

He didn't need any more frustration; he just wanted it to stop. He wanted to stop the hostility between himself and his partner; he wanted to stop the tense silences and awkward conversations and just breathe.

Why couldn't he breathe anymore?

The woman panted and prattled about her grave misfortunes and followed John into the house, where he'd moved to retrieve Mrs. Hudson. Surely she could deal with the hysteria better than he.

Much to John's annoyance, the woman clung to him unabashedly, begging for Sherlock.

"Wait here," he'd said as he ascended the stairs. "Sherlock," he called as he entered their flat, "we've got a client."

Sherlock's apathetic mask betrayed only the slightest hint of shock and curiosity, and, had John been less familiar with the detective, he would've interpreted the scant emotion as annoyance, a mask within a mask. It was a source of great pride within the doctor, to possess the ability to read him so well.

Lestrade, however, was another story. Agitation marred his aging features, twisting them into an unpleasant grimace. He reeked of sorrow, a far cry from the professional detective inspector John had seen not five minutes prior.

What had he missed?

John was about to voice his curiosity when a shrill, trembling voice interrupted him.

"Please Mr. Holmes, you _must _help my husband; he's being targeted, and I don't know why," the woman rambled. "All I know is that everyone I know is killing themselves, and they're all wearing rings nearly identical to my husband's."

The doctor's irritation was smothered by grudging interest. He hadn't wanted her to be interesting (watching Sherlock kick her out would've greatly pleased him, no matter how wrong it was), but her claim seemed vital to the intriguing case. John was obligated to humor her, for Sherlock's sake.

Lestrade blinked, and his gaze flickered between the woman and the door, clearly torn between fleeing and staying. The doctor got the distinct feeling he'd missed something important, and he waited for one of them to explain.

"Go on, Lestrade," Sherlock ordered. "We'll fill you in later."

Lestrade nodded and rushed down the stairs, his pounding footsteps complimenting the tense silence. Sherlock's cold, calculating gaze swept up and down her quivering figure, though she stood resolute; she did not further wilt under his attention.

After a beat of compete silence, the detective flippantly motioned to the chair commonly associated with the clients, and John moved it out for the woman. Sherlock plopped inelegantly into his leather seat and meditatively pressed his hands together under his chin.

"So, Mrs..."

"Oliver."

"Mrs. Oliver," Sherlock continued as John sat beside him. "Why do you think your husband is being targeted? How are you related to all of the suicides?"

"Well... I myself am not related directly to all of the deceased... But I know a few of them!" She exclaimed, holding up her hands as she saw Sherlock deflate. "And I swear, the rings are copies of my husband's! My husband wears a golden ring with the Roman Numeral I."

"Rings?" Sherlock asked. "What rings?"

"Don't play dumb with me," Mrs. Oliver snapped. "Each body has worn a ring, counting down from seven."

"What makes you think that, Mrs. Oliver?" John asked. _How do you know? The police withheld details of rings... _

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, the doctor's confusion mirrored under a carefully-masked expression.

Mrs. Oliver retrieved her phone from her massive purse, hands shaking. "They've been texting me pictures," she explained as she pulled them up and handed her phone to Sherlock, who held it out for John to see. There were five photos, sent from a blocked number, and all showed the golden rings on limp, wet hands. "And, after they send me a picture, they send a name."

_Matthew Williams _

_Laura Jones _

_Travis Lee_

_ Ida Michaelson_

_Tom Feral_

"A fifth name?" John asked. "There's been another?"

"They texted me that one fifteen minutes ago. I anonymously tipped the police as soon as I got it."

Realization dawned. "That's why Lestrade left just now?"

The detective's phone chimed, and he deftly opened the message. "John," Sherlock said as his eyes flickered from the screen to the doctor. He handed John his phone, eyes ablaze with interest.

Their hands brushed as the phone was exchanged, and the doctor fought for composure. Relief and joy buzzed comfortably through his veins; however, John's happiness was short lived. Sherlock's voice faded away as the doctor stared at the screen in disbelief.

Crime scene bad- Tom stabbed his family and drowned himself for no apparent reason. -G.L.

"-and, my partner and I will investigate this," Sherlock continued. "But you need to get us your husband's ring."

"I don't think I can do that," Mrs. Oliver admitted. "He's always wearing it; I haven't seen him take it off since he got it years ago."

"Try to do it, if you can," Sherlock compromised. "It would be significantly more difficult for me to retrieve it, but I need his ring for examinations."

"I understand," Mrs. Oliver answered as she stood from her chair. "Thank you for accepting my case."

"Have you shown anyone the photos?" Sherlock asked. John rose from his seat to lead the woman out of their flat.

"No, Mr. Holmes. I've kept the information private until now, and it nearly drove me mad." The woman followed John down the stairs, focusing her attention on the doctor. "Of course, I won't tell anyone about them, but it was wonderful to get that off of my chest."

"You didn't even tell your husband?"

"Heavens, no! He wouldn't believe me if I told him that people were out to get him. Besides, my husband is a very busy man; why should I bother him with something he wouldn't believe?" Mrs. Oliver smiled, thanked John for his time, and exited the flat.

John watched her leave for a moment before he returned upstairs.

"Tomorrow we're going to visit Mrs. Oliver's home," Sherlock said as John sat across from him.

"Alright. Does Lestrade need us at the crime scene?"

"No, but I thought we should grab a bite to eat. We haven't done that in a while, don't you think?"

"We should do that," John agreed, pleasantly surprised. "Angelo's?"

Sherlock smirked. "Where else?"

* * *

They spent an hour examining the information pinned to the wall before they left for dinner, fingers entwined and peaceful silence enveloping their leisurely stroll to the restaurant. Conversation mixed pleasantly with their dining, trivial topics with little relation to the suicide case at hand. The detective ate sparsely, picking off of John's plate more than his own.

It was as if their previous altercation hadn't occurred. Though there was, in his mind, cause for concern regarding that specific argument, John ignored it for the night, unwilling to taint their date.

And, when he pulled Sherlock close in the privacy of their flat, kisses and caresses communicating what words could not, their problems escaped his mind completely.


	11. Chapter 11

**In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'd like to say I am very thankful for all of you reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing Bath! Cliché, I know, but true all the same.**

* * *

The woman couldn't stand the atrocious state her living room was in.

Sure, everything was clean and orderly, not an object out of place and no dust or dirt to be seen, but the physical state wasn't as repulsive as the emotional or mental. Everything reminded the woman of _her, _of that horrible, annoying girl she called friend.

Called. No one knew, of course, the falseness of the title. Then again, she doubted anyone really cared.

That girl, that horrid horrid horrid brat, fickle and frail, the sort that existed to support and surpass every negative stereotype about the female gender. Of all the girls in the world, the woman was stuck with _her _as a friend, as a companion, as a girl who'd wanted more than friendship.

There was nothing wrong with her friend, in everyone else's eyes, that condemned a relationship between the two. They were the same age, already friends, both gay, both tied to understanding families, both pretty enough by society's standards, yet she refused to truly change their relationship. The girl was too fickle, too superficial and clueless.

The girl was irritating, but she served her purpose well. The woman preyed upon her clueless nature and toxic infatuation, manipulated one urge to sate another: stealing. Sometimes, she simply snatched whatever she wanted; other times, she manipulated the girl into giving her what she wanted. Either way, she considered it stealing, but it hardly mattered. The girl got a friend with benefits, and the woman got an outlet for her stealing.

Of course, it was quite difficult to rob a girl of her sort when the robber in question had extreme fluctuations in what was taken. Sometimes, it was cash; other times, it was objects or words or emotions.

That clock atop the mantle? The girl's. The lace doily on the mahogany side table? The girl's. Those grey pillows on the loveseat? The girl's. The snow globe on the bookshelf? The girl's.

It was sickening just how much _she _polluted the woman's home, yet it couldn't be helped. She was the perfect fix to her addiction.

Not that that mattered anymore, of course.

The woman trudged through her living room, down a hall (painting of a sailboat, painting of a flower, picture of two wolves) and into her bathroom (grey towel, toothbrush jar, toothbrush (though that probably wasn't stolen)). She prepared her daily bath with practiced ease, the tub filling in minutes, steam wafting gently through the air, softly suffocating.

The woman sighed happily as she sank into the waters, as the water hit her feet, legs, waist, arms, shoulders, mouth (_are you sure?_), nose, eyes, hair, cocooning her entire body, invading her nose and mouth as she allowed the water to fill her body.

It was ironic, she thought as darkness tugged at her consciousness, that the girl she'd stolen from for years stole her ability to live.

* * *

John drifted into consciousness slowly, oblivion melting into reality effortlessly. For a moment, the doctor contemplated falling asleep once more; surely he had enough time before they visited Mrs. Oliver's house.

He turned over, closed his eyes, and relaxed.

Seconds later, the alarm blared.

All of John's previous peace vanished. It was unpleasant at best, and, coupled with the faint scent of smoke tinging the streams of sunshine streaming from the window, it indicated a long, stressful day. The analysis of Mrs. Oliver was to begin, much to John's annoyance. The last thing he wanted to do was investigate her case. Sure, he craved resolution, but not at the cost of their relationship or his sanity.

Sighing, he ignored the warm sheets, smoke, and sunlight and forced himself to rise. Pouting in his room would only irritate Sherlock, and God knew what he'd do under the influence of annoyed boredom.

He flung the sheets away, only to hit a warm mass of flesh and bone. A low, slightly animalistic grumble erupted from the bundle. Sherlock rolled over, cracking open one eye and shifting closer to the half-awake doctor.

"Sherlock? What're you doing, sleeping?"

"Faulty experiment; needed fresh air to think. Smoke is distracting."

"You're telling me. I woke up to it."

"No, you woke up to your alarm clock. If it was the smoke, you would've been up hours ago."

John's sleepy brain finally snapped into awareness. "What did you do? What did you destroy?"

"We'll need a new blender, but, then again, we've needed to replace it for weeks."

"We had a blender?" John shifted, longing to sink into the sheets. He was, however, loath to shatter his wakefulness and the comfortable atmosphere, so the doctor remained frozen in a sitting position.

"John," Sherlock grumbled again as he shifted closer to the doctor, "we don't have to get up for another hour."

"Since when did you care about sleep?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Everything about you screams exhaustion, and you're only fighting against it because you are stubborn and unwilling to accept that I am tired, resting being the only way to prepare properly for our investigation."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"There are many things I've said that seemed to surprise you."

"Well, you are an interesting character."

"'Never thought I'd hear you say that,'" Sherlock parroted. John chuckled and acquiesced, slipping into the warm grasp of cotton and consulting detectives. The doctor's arms wrapped around the thin waist, copying the detective's eager grasp.

After a long, comfortable pause accompanied only by the soft sounds of relaxed breathing, John spoke.

"Did you get more information about the crime scene Lestrade visited yesterday?"

"Yes; gruesome murder of a family by the husband and father, immediately followed by the suicide of the murderer. Lestrade found the body of the man in the upstairs bathroom, drowned to death, wearing a golden ring with the Roman Numeral III."

Revulsion overwhelmed the doctor, and he shuddered. It was the worst they'd seen yet, and a small part of John was relieved they'd missed it. "What do you think of the whole case? Is it a copy of the cabbie?"

"No," Sherlock murmured. "This crime has different motives and different patterns. If we were to assume that it was a copy-cat, we would miss the true murderer entirely."

"What do you think it is, then?" John's voice softly strummed through the thick morning air like his fingers through Sherlock's inky curls.

The detective all but purred under his ministrations, and several minutes passed before his voice shifted from unintelligible murmurs to structured words. "I'm not entirely sure."

"The woman, Mrs. Oliver?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"But-"

"John, for a doctor, your bedside manner is atrocious. If I'd wanted to investigate or speculate, we'd be in the living room or in a cab, driving to her house." Sherlock broke away from the embrace to stare at John. "However, we aren't in the living room, or the cab, or her house."

John's eyebrow quirked upward. "Now?" He asked, somewhat incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. I want silence, not sex."

John nodded, and the detective sunk into sheets and arms slowly and softly.

* * *

The cabbie accepted John's payment with grabby hands and glazed eyes, speeding away the second the transaction was complete. His flight irked John, in part because he nearly got his arm broken, and because there was no reason for it. The house (mansion, he amended) wasn't too far from town, nor did it possess the eerie, foreboding air the Bender house had.

Shrugging the inconsequential incident aside, John followed Sherlock to the front door, where the detective rang the doorbell once. His finger left the button seconds before the door swung open, nearly whacking the two men in their faces.

John was irked, his body nearly injured not once but twice by oblivious, selfish people.

"Oh Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I'm so happy you came! I was afraid that you wouldn't. I know my situation seems ridiculous," Mrs. Oliver babbled as she opened the door and ushered the men inside, "perhaps even a product of a self-centered mind, but I swear my family is being targeted!"

Sherlock gave no indication of hearing the inane chatter, his attention sweeping over the room and her with precision and detachment. John followed suit in regards to keeping quiet, focusing on the woman and the sounds of irritated footsteps approaching the trio.

"Darling," a gruff, masculine voice interrupted, demanding and void of any affection the nickname possessed, "lunch is almost ready, isn't it? What are you doing with these men?" A middle-aged man strolled into the foyer wearing a suit and tie, his blonde hair carefully styled and posture stiff.

"These are the detectives I told you I invited to our home," Mrs. Oliver answered as she morphed from a desperate woman to an obedient housewife. "I was just about to serve lunch when they arrived, perfectly on time."

"I don't understand why you need them." Mr. Oliver's gaze swept dispassionately over the two men, neither of which squirmed under the attention, John being accustomed to far frostier, and Sherlock being in possession of the most apathetic demeanor (second only to Mycroft) the doctor had ever seen. "I told you they were unnecessary."

"You don't believe your family is under attack?" Sherlock qualified.

Mr. Oliver scoffed as one of his hands, decorated with a single golden ring, rubbed his neck. "No, I don't. It's a preposterous assumption. No one would dare trifle with the Oliver family."

"Why wouldn't anyone trifle with you?" John asked. Mr. Oliver inhaled deeply, a sure sign of a rant ready to explode viciously over the four of them, when his wife interrupted.

"Why don't you explain yourself over lunch? It's time to eat, and we shouldn't keep our guests waiting, dear."

Her husband paused, John expecting him to continue ranting, but he merely sighed and nodded. "I am starving. You two follow me, and I'll get this whole mess straightened up."

Mr. Oliver strode out of the foyer, and Mrs. Oliver motioned for the two to follow him. John glanced at Sherlock before they immersed themselves into the Oliver household.


	12. Chapter 12

***There is some homophobic slander in this chapter, though it does not mirror my opinions/beliefs nor behavior.**

* * *

The soft clinking of silverware meeting china plates was the only sound that John wanted to hear, the only pleasant sound within the room. Unfortunately for him, there was one sound Mr. Oliver wanted to hear: his own voice, and he wasn't about to deny himself the pleasure.

"So, why do you think these people are necessary, again, dear? You think my life's in danger, hm? I don't see why, if there's such a great risk, that you should bring these two _amateurs_ in to "save" me. And just where is your proof that they want me or my family dead? A few suicides?" Mr. Oliver snorted as he reached for his drink. "It's preposterous; I thought you were wiser than that, letting your imagination run away with you."

"A few suicides? Those were our friends, all of them. Don't you think that's odd?" The wife's voice trembled, her movements halted in favor of glaring at her husband.

"Not odd, not really. It must be difficult to try and cope with our success. Some people can't handle the strain."

John's desired silence finally arrived, though not through means he anticipated nor desired. Horror froze John and the wife; the husband continued eating, and Sherlock continued to analyze the couple before them. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the silence was not long-lasting.

"You do not regret their deaths?" Sherlock asked.

The husband huffed. "That's not what I said. I said they weren't odd, not not regrettable. It is a shame that our children lost friends, as did my wife, but that's just how life is. It's best just to move on," Mr. Oliver replied, pointedly glaring at Mrs. Oliver. "It is not necessary to hire investigators."

"Where are your children now, Mr. Oliver?" Sherlock asked.

"Both of them are out of the house," Mrs. Oliver replied. "John and Jane are at university, Jane as a freshman and John as a junior. They-"

"Enough!" Mr. Oliver exclaimed. "I am done entertaining our nosy guests. They've done nothing but pry, and I won't stand for it! If you want to investigate something not worth investigating, don't waste my time too. I've got better things to do than listen to this nonsense."

"They're not amateurs; they're Sherlock Holmes and _Doctor _John Watson. You should show them more respect. They just want to save your life!"

Sherlock scoffed softly and looked away from the couple, out the window, where the wind toyed with the leafy canopies of a large oak tree.

Mr. Oliver opened his mouth angrily, then snapped it shut after a strange pause. The anger melted into shock, then re-ignited into fury. "Holmes and Watson, you say?" His voice was smooth and controlled by the tethers of cold, dark rage.

"Yes. Holmes and Watson, the successful detectives that-"

"You mean to tell me that, not only have you wasted my time with your over-dramatic drivel, you invited the _fags _to snoop in our personal business?"

John clenched his hands into fists under the table, seething but unable to form his rage into coherent thoughts and arguments. He did the only thing he could think of; he reached his arm subtly out to the detective beside him and grabbed the detective's tremulous hand.

"I'm not quite sure exactly what you are more upset about," Sherlock spoke after a tense silence, his hand unresponsive in John's, "the fact that two men have a healthier, more satisfying relationship than you and your wife or your other women, or the fact that your situation is so terribly troubling that we are the only ones willing to assist your poisonous family."

"_Get out!_" Mr. Oliver stood from his seat, pointing frantically, feverishly, at the door. "_Get the hell out of my house, and if you return, so help me, I'll-_"

"Just leave," Mrs. Oliver ordered. As John moved to rise from his seat, she spoke again. "Don't bother returning; consider the case closed. If I find that you've made this visit public knowledge, either of you, I can assure you that you will be sorry."

Sherlock and John left the room without further conversation between them; the sounds of the married couple bickering, however, clung to their clothes and skin even as they reached the entrance. The doctor was thankful the wife hadn't escorted them to the door, as her presence was sure to elicit a more violent reaction. As it was, John could hardly force himself out of the house, the urge to go back and-

"What did you think, John?" Sherlock's voice, rather than interrupt his thoughts, served only to fuel the rage burning within him. With the interruption came his attention, and when the doctor's eyes caught the detective's tremors, painstakingly concealed but obvious all the same, it was everything he could do to not growl his response.

"What did I think? I thought that they were rude and foolish; I'd call them the murderers, except that seems to be something beneath them."

"It's not an invalid deduction, although yours seems to be fueled by emotion rather than logic." The detective's tremors evaporated quickly from his body, instilling doubts of their validity within the doctor. "They were overly defensive; obviously they are heavily involved in the suicides. We need to investigate them further. They definitely have something to hide."

John clenched his teeth but made no move to outright disagree with the detective. His thoughts refused to free themselves from the thorns of Sherlock's reaction. Doubt tugged his lingering anger childishly, incessantly.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock's question took John by surprise. "I'm fine, are _you _alright?"

"Yes. Haven't been insulted so childishly in centuries, though."

"Not even from Mycroft?"

A bitter smile tugged at the detective's lips. "His insults have always been intelligent. Besides, it would be foolish for him to insult me for something he is too."

"Mycroft is gay?" John asked. It shouldn't have surprised him how quickly Sherlock could change subjects, shouldn't have aroused suspicion and empowered doubt; however, John broke personal "should-nots" like Sherlock broke criminal protocol, and it forced the strength of his trust to crumble and crack.

"Couldn't you tell? His levels of personal grooming far surpass normal standards."

"That's kind of normal for someone like him, though," John replied. "Image is-"

Sherlock interrupted John's sentence by halting suddenly as he rounded a corner, the doctor nearly slamming into his back. A crime scene contaminated a row of elegant flats on the road ahead of them, bright yellow caution tape sharply contrasting with death's presence blanketing the scene.

Simultaneously, they surged forward, toward the commotion, curiosity and dread savagely nipping at their heels. The bustle of officers allowed for welcome distraction; John focused more on the familiar faces (Anderson's irreverent and disparaging; Donovan's irritated but resigned) than the lingering hope beyond rationality that it was a scene unrelated to the string of suicides.

They arrived in the flat, and Sherlock immediately examined his surroundings while John called out for Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector emerged from the hallway, exhaustion staining his body. "She's in the bathroom," he explained. "Drowned herself. There's-"

A woman, sobbing wildly, trailed after Lestrade, garbled words bubbling from her quivering lips.

"This was her friend. I found her here with the body; she was the one who called."

"Jane Oliver?" Sherlock asked as he entered the bathroom.

The woman nodded vigorously and tried to calm herself while John followed the detective into the bathroom. The deceased rested gently on the tiled floor, soaked in bath water. No serious wounds pointed to a death other than intentional drowning; she was an averagely healthy woman from what the doctor could tell.

Rather than voice his deductions, Sherlock stared silently at the corpse before rising and swiftly exiting the room.

Unnerved by the detective's behavior, John stayed beside the woman on the floor a little longer, examining her sadly, wondering what caused him to hold his tongue. Often, he refrained from allowing others to see his deductions without the prodding of suspicion or disbelief, but Sherlock rarely obscured criminal deductions from the doctor.

John stood slowly, grimacing slightly from the fleeting pain that laced his movements, and exited the room. Jane's sobs trickled slowly into whimpers, her wretched gasps an uncomfortable contrast to the detective's cold voice.

"This is why I believe, Lestrade, that the Oliver family should be under severe investigation. I believe they are the key to solving the mystery of these deaths."


	13. Chapter 13

***Warning, bit more homophobic (and other discriminatory) behavior. Again, it is only in this story for plot/character purposes. The insults and comments are _not_ reflective of personal beliefs.**

**Also, a warm, massive plate of blue chocolate chip cookies to anyone who catches my fandom reference within the story. **

* * *

Revulsion clung to Mr. Oliver's skin as his wife simmered beside him, shouting something or other in her annoying, shrill voice. Why, why had he married her again? He couldn't quite remember what great virtue had masked _this. _He couldn't remember what possessed him to sign away his sanity.

There was an opening, a moment of gathered breath and rejuvenation of outlandish behavior and accusations, and he took it, wedging in-between her anger to solidify his. He wasn't about to submit to her inane fury.

She held no power over him. Nothing did, anymore.

(Nothing, of course, save for the image, the position of superiority.)

His wife had no right, none at all, to hire those... those... despicable, revolting men to investigate their family. There was nothing wrong with them-nothing at all. The Oliver family would not be demeaned by such imaginary fables. It didn't do, having the ties found and pulled away, the curtains of heavy red blood forced to rise, even if the true puppet master was revealed.

Mr. Oliver wouldn't stand for it, not if he could help it. He hadn't spent his life, his career, his everything on a reputation only to have it sullied by the likes of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

Mrs. Oliver shouted shrilly, ripping him from his thoughts. Of course, now she directed her fury at the other women in his life. Somehow, _that _tied to this, to the disaster he was trying so desperately to dismantle.

Were all women so foolish? No, no not all; there were few with true intelligence. Annabeth wasn't foolish; far from it. Of course, not as smart as he, but she'd come the closest. Why hadn't he married her? They wouldn't have dealt with these problems, wouldn't have been so foolish to host two detectives with corpses still strewn around them, their ankles submerged in blood.

That, and the family would've looked much nicer with her blonde hair and sharp, grey eyes, and the children would've improved from a superior gene pool. Instead, he was stuck with dull, dull, dull, all because he thought it was best, securing fortune and stability within a placid woman.

Whoever said the stupid women were easiest to contain was a damned fool. They probably died by their woman's hands, bludgeoned to death because they'd restricted the budget slightly and forbade the immediate purchase of some designer shoe or purse or whatever unnecessary junk they thought they needed.

An empty wineglass shattered to the right of his head as he stood from his chair, completely ignoring his wife and her glass. Her aim never flew true; he had nothing to worry about. He continued to walk away from the dining room, and the sounds of his wife's fury melting rapidly into strange, false sorrow lingered heavily in the air.

The thought of ending it all waltzed seductively, fleetingly through his mind, but he brushed the idea aside. He wouldn't do it, no matter what the consequences. He was too good to die so shamefully; he hadn't worked so hard to throw it all away.

Still, it would do him good to get away from his revulsion, from the lingering presence of the snooping fags, from the annoying wife.

Ducking into the closest room with a proper lock (a rarity courtesy of his lovely, trusting wife), a bathroom, he shut the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against the wood for a moment, drawing relief from the sturdy sensation of a hard surface pressing into his skin. It centered him for a moment, and, when he pushed away to stare at the mirror's artistic recapturing of his alluring features, he momentarily forgot about the anger of his wife, the noble sacrifices he'd made to achieve high standing.

Absentmindedly, he toyed with the faucets, allowing warm water to run down the drain, allowing the plug to fall and the water to slowly rise. He plunged his hands under the stream and began to wash, to scrub away any remnant of his previous revulsion. The soap's lavender scent polluted the air; however, he continued to scrub feverishly, even when his hands were half-submerged in soapy, dirty water.

His eyes flickered from his hands to his reflection, and, with each shift in attention, his unease grew. He looked like hell; thus, he didn't understand why he would think staring at his disheveled state would relieve him, but he continued to do so, regardless of the aftereffects.

His last flicker snagged not on himself, but on a movement from within the shower. The curtain fluttered ever-so-slightly, and it brought to light the darkness which bathed most of the room, as only the lights above the mirror glowed yellow-white. Running a hand over his favorite ring, a simple golden I, Mr. Oliver struggled to still his quivering heart and spun around.

He'd expected to be met with empty air, a nonthreatening sight polluted by a natural phenomenon (wind) and a frazzled mind; however, there was a legitimate threat, and, faster than thought, it dashed from the shower and attacked him.

If Mr. Oliver was allowed to narrate the attack, he would've drawn out the fight with punches and kicks, with clever quips seasoning his blows. He would've triumphed, beaten the bastard/bitch and revealed them for the scum they were, torn off that cliché mask of... of... oh, what was that again? He knew he'd seen it somewhere, but he couldn't place it. "Adrenaline," he would decree during his storytelling, "reinforces the brawn by stripping one's brilliance. The more brilliance, the more brawn. And, that night, [insert name of uncloaked villain] was the most unlucky bastard to ever walk the earth."

As Mr. Oliver was unable to narrate the attack, the true, pathetic scene was described.

For all of the prestigious classes Mr. Oliver had attended, he couldn't fight to save his life, not when it mattered. The assailant needed no elaborate attack, no burst of superhuman strength to dominate their prey. Mr. Oliver swiftly suffered three, four, five painful blows before his head was shoved into the basin of overflowing, dirty lavender-water.

Then, and only then, did the true flailing begin. Feeble attempts to overpower the criminal morphed into desperate, animalistic thrashing. The effort did little to improve the situation; the intruder merely pressed the body harder into the water, smashing Mr. Oliver's cheek into the marble. His eyes and lungs stung as they met contaminated water, and blood mixed lazily with the lavender, the metallic sharp taste a product of his violent collision.

Resistance only lasted so long against such a force, against desperately inhaling the water, and his restraint was depleted by the effort of ineffective flailing.

His limbs began to weaken, slowly, as he felt a cold haze tugging at him from all directions. His heart grew still, his inhalations shuddered to a halt, and his sight faded into darkness. The last thing he felt before his being stilled was the strange sensation of something toying with his favorite ring.

* * *

The intruder smirked beneath their hangman costume. They watched Mr. Oliver's form still completely before carefully checking his pulse with one hand, keeping the other focused on drying the ring.

After carefully cleaning up after themselves, save for the corpse himself, they slipped silently from the bathroom, the scent of lavender death perfuming their clothes and lingering in their nostrils long after they'd returned to their abode.


End file.
